


Unbound

by MeetMeInTheMatinee



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: 1980s New York, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John Wick, Consensual Kink, Demonic Possession, Eventual fluff and smut, F/M, Pagers!, Paranormal, Pay phones!, Sex while posessed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeetMeInTheMatinee/pseuds/MeetMeInTheMatinee
Summary: italics = demon





	1. Sledge

He took a deep breath and slowly opened the basement door with a steady hand. An unremarkable action, one he’d performed thousands of times. Tonight this small movement carried a weight unlike any he’d felt since that night. The night of his impossible task. He was descending into the basement but he thought, it may as well be the depths of hell. Heaving the sledgehammer over his shoulder he brought it down again and again until the concrete was turned into dust and rubble. He was exhausted from the brutal beating he had taken but the pain and the sweat was no match for his white hot rage. Fuelled by his overwhelming grief. 

He sank to his knees. As he cleared away the remains of the floor he heard it. His name. A seductive whisper at first -- but the more rubble his hands brushed away the louder and more insistent it got. JOHN! The whisper was now a loud hiss. He had heard murmurs in the house when he woke up in the pool of blood, a mixture of his and Daisy’s. He tried to dismiss it. “I’m concussed. It’s just my grief playing tricks on me.” Deep down he knew the truth. It wouldn’t be murmurs for long. With shaking hands he opened the lid of his long buried trunk. Unearthing a past he hoped he’d never have cause to revisit. He steadied himself with both hands and hung his head. “I’m sorry.” He said aloud to no one -- but really he was saying it to her. Hoping she couldn’t see what he was doing. What he was about to do. Not after everything. After that night. 

He pulled out everything he’d need. His suit. His knives. His guns. The gold coins still shone in the dim lighting of the basement. They felt cold and heavy in his hands. Much heavier than their size. His hands had held enough cold things for a lifetime he thought to himself. Helen. And now Daisy. JARDANI! The voice hissed again. Louder. Clearer.

John removed the last tray from the trunk. Gleaming brightly inside a circle of salt was the silver locket. Her hands had placed it there that night. His hand hovered over the locket. Not daring to touch it just yet. JARDANI JOVONOVICH! “Forgive me Helen.” John closed his eyes as he picked up the locket. Flicking it open with his thumbnail, it was suddenly burning hot in his hand. I knew you were mine! You were always mine! He heard the voice scream just before everything went black. 

The phone. The phone was ringing. He pushed himself up into a seated position. When did I lay down? He wondered. Everything felt fuzzy. The ringing kept coming so he dragged himself to the phone. Putting the receiver to his ear without saying a word. “Hello, John.” The edges of his vision went black. He heard the sound of Viggo’s voice but struggled to comprehend. As if he were trying to overhear a conversation in another room. Except the phone was in his hand and it was silent in his house. It didn’t make any sense. “Let us not resort to our baser instincts.” Viggo knew John was still on the line, he was no stranger to his former associates silence. He respected that about John. A man of few words -- he meant every one he ever uttered. No bullshit, no lies. Unlike his godforsaken son. VIGGO! It was a raspy growl. It wasn’t John who had responded. It was someone else. SOMETHING else. A voice he thought had been buried long ago. Safely ensconced in a prison of silver and salt and concrete. Viggo’s blood ran cold when the line went dead in his hand. 

He wiped a shaking hand over his clammy face. “What did he say?” Avi asked. “Enough. He said enough.” Viggo sent up a silent prayer. He knew it was useless. It was far too late for God or any person to intervene on his behalf. The one person who could have salvaged this situation was dead. She’d be of no help this time. John had unleashed the demon and there was no turning back.


	2. Marked for Death

Blood. It didn’t repulse him like some -- or excite him like others. Whether it splattered or dripped or flowed freely he was unbothered. Jardani focused on the wall as the smell of blood and ink filled the air of the dank, cinderblock room. The sting of the tattoo needle barely registering. Muffled cries that arose from his fellow graduates in the chairs beside him were cut short one by one. His eyes stayed fixed on the wall, his bare chest pressing hard into the back of the wooden chair. His body unmoving even as a hand slapped unexpectedly against the open wound of his fresh tattoo and black dust clouded his vision. Everything faded away for a moment. The smell of damp, sour earth and charred flesh blanketed the room and pulled him back to awareness before it lifted as suddenly as it had materialized. His eyes cleared and everything appeared normal. 

The director approached him, her face grim and her eyes filled with a mix of dread and pity. “You are marked Jardani -- you will serve and be of service -- bringing death to all those deserving.” She said coldly before leaning towards him and kissing him on the cheek, leaving a crimson stain where her lips had been. “I will serve, I will be of service.” He repeated. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as soon as the words left his mouth. A low, raspy breath sounded in his ear, Jardani -- or he thought it was in his ear -- but there was no one behind him. Jardani Jovonovich you are mine. This time the growled words came from within his mind. Jardani was no longer calm or in control -- he felt unsettled, afraid even. His wide eyes searched the Director’s face for answers. “You’ve been chosen. Do not fight it, it will only destroy you to do so.” She turned her gaze to the now empty chairs to his right. He followed her gaze and took in the corpses of his former classmates on the floor. “What have you done?” “What have I done? Nothing. They weren’t strong enough. They weren’t chosen.” “Chosen? By who?” “Who? Oh, no my darling Jardani. By what. You’ll understand in time.” “I don’t believe in your dark fairy tales about witches and demons. Stories from the small villages where they have nothing but potatoes and tall tales to keep them going.” The Director extended a trembling hand and patted his cheek patronizingly. “They aren’t tales. They’re warnings. Your stubbornness will be your undoing if you’re not careful Jardani.” She let go of his face and left the room. He turned and stared at his former classmates for a moment. Each one of them with a dust coated tattoo on their left shoulder, their necks so horribly broken that their wide, dead eyes started up at the ceiling. “Chosen.” He said aloud. Goosebumps covered his arms and painfully raised the tattoo on his shoulder. 

A man wearing a fedora walked into the room, followed by several very large men carrying various cleaning supplies. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here.” He said, sizing up Jardani before extending a hand toward him. “Charlie.” “Jardani.” He said as he shook his hand. “We’ve got work to do Jardani, if you’ll excuse us.” He said, tipping his head in the direction of the twisted bodies on the floor. “Right.” “Here’s my card should you ever find yourself in need of...dinner reservations.” “Thanks, Charlie.” He said politely before he turned to leave. The sound of plastic unrolling and brooms sweeping across the floor started as soon as he entered the hallway. 

He walked into his sparsely furnished room at the academy, the one he’d returned to after he finished his stint in the Marine’s and quietly shut the door behind him. He paused to gaze over his shoulder in front of his mirror to see his newly added ink. It was smeared with black ash. What the fuck. He wondered to himself as he reached back and gathered some onto his fingers. As he rubbed the gritty, yet powdery substance between his fingers the smell of charred bone and flesh filled his nose. He shuddered violently, not knowing what to make of everything that happened. I am you and you are mine. It was almost a seductive whisper this time. It’s just the shock of everything. He thought. No Jardani. The voice purred in response. “What the fuck!” He yelled turning around frantically. We’re together. My blood in yours. You will spill blood in my name Jardani. IN OUR NAME! “It can’t be. They’re just stories for fucks sake!” He was panicked now. His hands fisted in his hair, in need of something to hold onto. He had no one else, nothing else to hold onto. You have ME! The voice screeched. “JESUS CHRIST!” Jardani bellowed as he gripped his hair even tighter. Yell for him all you want, pet. He’ll never answer you. You’re damned. He gasped as icy cold fingers slid around his throat. He turned and faced the mirror and saw that he was alone. Yet -- the unmistakable indentations on his neck, the way his flesh turned white under the pressure of the unseen hand and the heavy, rasping breaths in his ear said otherwise. The words the Director had spoken and the image of the broken bodies of his classmates flashed through his mind as he struggled for breath. Don’t fight it. 

His fingers ached as he relaxed his fists and lowered them. Breathe. Take a breath. In. Hold. And out. Over and over again until he felt calmer, his heartbeat slowed to normal. His hands stopped shaking and all was quiet.


	3. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> italics = demon

The skill was all his. His impeccable aim, the ability to sink the knife in exactly when and where he needed to. His will to get up and keep going no matter how hard the take down or how bad the injury. The voice demanded blood and sacrifice and he was compelled to deliver. Unflinchingly. The Ruska Roma hadn’t seen a killer of his caliber in decades. Everyone knew he was talented, even from a young age but no one could have predicted what he’d become. Who he’d become. The quiet and studious boy that was Jardani Jovanovich became John Wick. The Baba Yaga. He bristled at that name when Viggo first called him that. It didn’t take long for it to catch on, for it to be heard and whispered on the streets of New York, Paris, St. Petersburg, Hong Kong. The black stain of death spreading out from underneath his hands wherever he was sent.

The voice remained a mostly soft, seductive whisper in his ear—as long as he killed. The coins he acquired afforded him the luxury of doing what he wanted. When he wanted. As long as the blood flowed, the demon remained sated. Too long between kills? The whispers turned into growls. Those growls went unheeded? Deep scratches in multiples of three would appear. All over his body. It became a game to him. How long could he go without killing? How much damage would the demon inflict until he caved to it’s will and took another contract to end the unrelenting physical and mental torment? The longest he’d managed was three weeks. By the end of that time he’d felt his grip on reality slipping away. The physical pain he could manage, the scratches would scar over but the constant screaming and wailing and demand to kill any living being that crossed his path became too much. He was scared of losing control entirely and killing someone innocent. If you were in his world, you weren’t innocent. You’d done horrible, dark things. The demon didn’t make any distinctions. It cared for blood and death – whose it was didn’t matter. But it mattered to him.

John tried everything to distract himself – to keep himself sane as the demon stepped up its efforts to control him. Drinking helped to numb the physical pain temporarily but did nothing to quiet the screeching in his head. He’d go to the Limelight or the Tunnel and find himself lost in the crush of bodies and the lights and the loud, driving thump of the bass. He’d find someone to go home with. Someone to focus all his attention on. The feel of their warm body under his, their touch and movements grounded him – that brief connection and sometimes even tenderness was enough to remind him of his humanity.

He’d been standing by the bar watching the movements of the crowd when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Excuse me, I’d like a drink.” She yelled into his ear over the music. He smiled at her. “That’s bold of you.” He said with a shake of his head. She laughed and her eyes lit up. She put her hand firmly on his chest and leaned in to his ear. “I meant I’d like to order a drink, you’re blocking the bar.” “Oh.” He said, as a flush crept across his cheeks. He stepped to the side to give her space at the bar. With her drink in her hand she turned back to John. “You wanna dance?” She asked rolling her hips from side to side in time with the beat. He smiled and hooked his fingers around the neck of his beer. “Yeah.” She didn’t give him time to say anything else before she led him through the crowd. Her fingers entwined with his. He felt a familiar and welcome warmth spread through him as they danced. Their bodies pressed together like pieces of a puzzle. “Do you want another drink?” He asked. She looked down at her empty glass and back at him. He could see her considering her options. She crooked her finger at him and he brought his ear closer to her mouth. “I have drinks at my place, if you want to join me?” He grinned and led her off the crowded dance floor.

She lived in a 3rd floor walk up. Coincidentally, not too far from the Continental. She unlocked and opened the door and held it open for him to step through. Her place was nicely furnished. John could tell she did quite well for herself – whatever it was that she did. “Do you want that drink, uh…?” She nervously bit her lower lip. He smirked and looked down at the floor. “John. And yeah, a drink would be nice.” He looked back at her expectantly. “Shelly.” “Shelly.” He said quietly. “Is bourbon ok John?” She asked as she took out two rocks glasses from a cupboard. “I like bourbon.” He said as she poured two generous glasses. She stood in front of him and passed him the glass. “Thanks.” He said, tipping it at her before taking a drink. She grinned at him and slid her free hand around his waist. He pulled her in for a heated kiss. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck. She hummed against his mouth and tightened her grip on his lower back. Her fingers sank below his belt, the material gathered between her fingers as she pulled it up and out of his pants. He turned and pinned her between himself and the kitchen island. She gasped as his lips caressed the curve of her neck and moved upward. John kissed and nipped his way up her neck as she slid her hands up and underneath his shirt. His lips found hers again and she slid her tongue against his. Both of them were out of breath when they pulled away from each other. She finished her drink and John did the same. She pulled him towards her bedroom as soon as he set down his glass.

Her bedroom was dusty rose and floral with touches of chrome and mirror. The bed piled high with ruffled pillows. He kissed her and walked backwards until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She fell down with a giggle and hoisted herself onto an elbow before grabbing on to John’s belt and using it for leverage to right herself. His smile turned into an open mouthed moan as her nimble fingers undid his belt and fly. She pulled him out of his pants as he held the side of her face and his thumb caressed her cheekbone. “Fuck.” He said softly as she wrapped her soft, plump lips around him and took him as deeply as she could. She moaned in delight at his appreciative sounds. She was good. Really good. He gripped her face tighter until he felt himself almost lose control and he backed away from her. She looked up at him and wiped her mouth. “You’re so beautiful like this.” He breathed out as she shifted on the bed. “Was that ok?” He let out the breath he was holding. “It was amazing. I just want to make sure I take care of you too.” She cocked her head to the side and grinned at him. She stood up and turned her back to him and shimmied her shoulders. “Lil’ help, then?” She asked. He slowly unzipped her dress. Peeling the black lace away from her as he kissed her now bare shoulder. She freed herself from the dress and let it drop to the floor. John slid his large, warm hands over her exposed skin. She turned and smiled widely as she pushed his pants over his hips as he took off his shirt. Everything winding up in a jumbled pile on the floor.

He pushed her back down on the bed and knelt in front of her. He nudged her legs apart with his body and trailed his fingers slowly up her inner thighs before his mouth followed. She groaned appreciatively as his tongue licked up the length of her. Her fingers tangled into his dark hair as she began to unravel underneath him. Her breaths coming in short gasps as she writhed against his face. “You taste so good. Fuck. So sweet.” He breathed against her cunt. “Don’t stop!” “I don’t plan on it.” He said with a smirk as he wrapped his mouth around her clit. Working it with his tongue as he slid two fingers easily inside her. He held her hips down with one arm as she rode out her orgasm, clenching around his fingers and grinding up against his mouth. _Kill her._ _No one would know._ The voice growled in his ear. He pushed the thought away and focused on how she felt under his hands. How she trembled through her aftershocks and smiled with dazed looking eyes. He got up off his knees and flopped down beside her. Catching her lips in a heated kiss. Their tongues sliding against each other as she pulled him on top of her. _See how easy? You could smother her._ The voice cooed again. John faltered for a moment. Trying desperately to ground himself. Shelly didn’t seem to notice his change in mood as she licked and sucked at his neck and rocked herself against him. She reached between them and stroked him. “Condom?” She asked. He shot her a lopsided grin and nodded. “Yeah.”

She rolled it onto him and he positioned himself at her entrance. They both moaned as he pressed into her. Not moving his hips until he felt her start to move against him. He used an arm to support himself and cupped her breast with the other. Lowering his head to capture her nipple between his teeth. He wouldn’t last much longer. He could feel himself getting closer and closer with each clench around his cock. She grabbed his hand and placed it over her throat. He looked at her half lidded eyes with surprise in his. “It’s ok. I like it.” She moaned. He wrapped his fingers around the delicate skin of her throat and added a bit of pressure. _Look at her! She wants you to! Just kill her. Choke her to death._ John could have sworn he felt his fingers tighten without his doing. She moaned appreciatively underneath him completely unaware that anything was going on and he quickly brought his hand away from her neck and shoved it between them. Working his thumb in circles over her clit as she screamed. He snapped his hips against hers a few more times before coming and settling his head against her shoulder, breathing heavily as the demon screamed in his head. As soon as their breathing evened out and returned to normal she sat up. “Hey, I don’t mean to be rude but I have an early day—” John held up his hand. “That’s ok. This was great, you were great—but I should go.” “You’re sure it’s?” “Yeah, it’s fine.” He kissed her on the cheek and then dressed quickly as she pulled on a robe.

He ran down the stairs and out of the building. John wanted to put as much distance between her and him as humanly possible. He knew the price of his standoff with the demon inside him would be an innocent life – if he held out for much longer. “God fucking damn it!” He whispered harshly as he steadied himself on the brick facade of a building. “God damn them ALL!” _No, Jardani – it’s you. You’re damned._ The ghoulish whisper echoed through his mind. He took a deep breath and straightened up. At that moment his pager went off. He knew the code. It was a contract. He made his way to the nearest payphone and called in to the switchboard. “Hello, it’s John Wick—yes—have the details sent to my room please.” There was no point in fighting it anymore. Not at the expense of someone who didn’t deserve to be at the end of his gun. Or knife. Or hands.


End file.
